


If I disappeared here... Would anyone notice?

by gaymien66



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Fixing what DC never addressed, Gonemen, Growth, M/M, Nightwing vs Hush, Other, Referenced Child Abuse, coming to terms with yourself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24705148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaymien66/pseuds/gaymien66
Summary: “You were wrong. I’m not strong here, Dick. Not strong enough to resist them. Because I don’t know who I am anymore. Who I ever was. If I disappeared here... Would anyone notice?”Tommy Elliot has been missing from Gotham for the last few months after an accident led him to be lost in a place between the real world and the underworld, where he is forced to come to terms with himself and accept himself to escape his own personal hell.A continuation of Prelude to the Wedding: Nightwing Vs. Hush because DC never continued it and they just left my fave in there and didn't say anything about it.
Relationships: Thomas Elliot/Bruce Wayne, Thomas Elliot/Edward Nygma, Thomas Elliot/Edward Nygma (Referenced)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

“You were _wrong_. I’m not strong here, Dick. Not strong enough to resist them. Because I don’t know who I am anymore. Who I ever was.”

“If I disappeared here... Would anyone _notice_?”

Those were the words he spoke before he lost himself, or- Whatever was left of himself past the empty impersonating shell filled with envy, greed and lust. He let the gonemen take him- Even through their terrifying, hungry faces, he couldn't find himself to fight what he felt, and he gave in. Their skin seemed to melt against his, teeth tearing away at what little identity he had left, which was nothing. It wasn't his own face, it was Dick Grayson's, wasn't it ironic that he found himself here, surrounded by people just like him? What he could become from such an extreme loss of identity, and whatever was left was _torn away_ , violently and savagely, even if he couldn't feel a thing? Even if he felt more at peace than he ever had? Even with the wetness dripping down his cheeks and staining them with tears?

Just like that, Dr. Thomas Elliot-- No, _Hush,_ was dead.

And the pain was over; The pain Tommy wasn't aware he felt, the pain that was etched behind every face he took and deep in his heart. This was something akin to dying- He felt like he was dead. He felt like he was nothing at all. It was dark. God it was so dark. He could see, but all he could see was darkness- He couldn't see his own hands in front of him, but he could feel his face. He couldn't feel anything there, distinctively, he knew he had one. But no matter how he touched it, there was _nothing_ _there_. It went on like this. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel; He couldn't be mad or happy or jealous or _anything._

He couldn't say how long this went on. Perhaps a day, a month or a year, of purely blissful _nothing_ , until he realised. Until he realised he was cold. His skin was cold and it crawled as if desperate to break out of its shell, and he jerked, gasping for air as his eyes snapped open for the first time in an eternity. He didn't know if he had a face. He didn't feel like he had a face, he couldn't _touch_ his face, but he could _see._ The Gonemen had left, and charred ashes of furniture laid around him, bandages burnt up into a crisp on the ground. They were cold. He was still _here._ He was at Wayne manor, a twisted view of it, and it was unbearably empty. Silence held the halls, even if the ringing and repeating _you_ sing out like a broken record inside his head. The silence was broken. He could hear something- He could hear _someone_ talking. To who? Where?

He slowly picked himself up to what could vaguely be described as his feet, and he didn't feel planted down on the ground, and he didn't feel like he moved at all. But he did. Despite the lack of awareness, he moved, and automatically followed the sound. The voices. Familiar and yet a stranger to his ears. Through a door, and he found them; Two strangers he didn't recognize, but they were children. One was young- Black hair combed back in the way that you know their parents had done, and the other was- was- **He couldn't see his face.** But he was young. His hair was a fiery red, and in instinct, he knew he was a friend of the dark haired boy. A very close friend.

Between them, was a chess board.

He stared on with wonder, hearing them speak to one another- competitively and close. The red-haired one boasted, placing a knight forwards, and announcing with pride; “Checkmate!” And he laughed without a face. The dark haired one smiled in return.

“You're _way_ too good at this-” He said the red-haired boy's name, but he couldn't make it out. “-Shouldn’t way play something a bit more fair, so I actually have a chance? I was practicing and everything!”

“Nono, I like this game,” The red-haired boy insisted, much too serious for his age as he started placing the chess pieces back into place; “And no matter what we play, Bruce, you _know_ I’ll always be six steps ahead,” The faceless boy told him, leaning in closer with a happy laugh. A child’s laugh.

Bruce. Bruce; He _knows_ that name. Bruce...Wayne. Bruce Wayne lived in this manor, but he can’t remember Bruce being this small. He can’t remember, but there was a twisting feeling in his gut. He couldn’t identify the feeling- Just for the smallest moment, he was reminded that he had a body. _He didn’t have a face._ He wanted… Bruce. He wanted to be Bruce, and it made him _ache_ in a paining need, and he stared, staring as they started up another game of chess, absently talking to one another about happy-nothings. “What is- What is this?” He suddenly exclaimed, grasping at how _peculiar_ this situation was. He didn;t understand why he was here. Or- Or anything. His hand shot up, feeling for his _face_ . It _wasn’t there_. He wanted a face. He needed a face. Why was it so hard?

“ _These_ are _your_ memories,” A voice called out, different from the two children, and perhaps it was his own, but his eyes locked onto a man casually leant against the wall. He had no face, the skin stretched across where his eyes would be, and a beer bottle pressed against his lips. His head was protected by a hard bike helmet. “Well, If you want to call em yours- Not much of ‘you’ left anymore. But I’m shocked you got _this_ far, I thought I’d give you a hand.”

It was hard to speak, but he did it; “Who am I?” He asked, a desperation dripping from his tone. “Bruce-- Am I Bruce Wayne?” The man gave him an odd look at that, even without his face, and he laughed.

“I don’t _think_ you're that playboy. Your little friend left you here, but I suppose he wasn’t totally wrong. This place seems to have…” He waved with his hand, as if he was trying to come up with the word for it; “ _Some_ connection to yourself. Barely. So listen. This place isn’t _just_ the place between _your_ world and the underworld. Another word is… Purgatory. Lost souls wander these cities as _ghosts_ , but it doesn't mean it's impossible to _leave_ . I mean, I’m only here because I _like_ it here,” He laughed. He didn't understand why he was laughing.

“What do I need to do-?” He tried, voice weak.

_“Find yourself.”_

“Wanna go on a hike later--?” Bruce’s voice rang out, blinking as light rushed back into his vision, gripping onto the side of what appeared to be a boat. He didn’t hear the name Bruce called him. Where was he? It was a bright afternoon, but the sky was stained in a blood red, the moon shining brighter than the non-existent sun. But it was the afternoon, on a lake, with Bruce Wayne, young, only aged ten. Someone responded to him, a voice he recognised as the red-haired boy. He couldn’t see the red-haired boy.

“Only if we absolutely _have_ to get out of this boat,” He looked onto the water. Everything seemed so big, and he seemed so small. His gaze wandered back to Bruce, blinking a few times. He was looking at _him._ He was talking to _him._ What was he supposed to say? He stared on in silence, acutely frowning. 

“I’m glad you finally talked your mom into sending you to camp.”

“What are you talking about?” He tried, his voice broken- But it didn’t sound like his voice. It sounded like the red-haired boy, and he felt his body tense up. 

“You’ve been taking care of your mom since the car accident. The least she could do is let you have a couple weeks off.”

“Yeah… About her accident. Bruce, did you ever have a _big secret_? One that you thought you could never t-” His voice caught, and he was forced into a fit of coughs. Bruce reacted this time, pulling up the oars to place his hands on his shoulders, even if he couldn't feel it. He looked more concerned than he’s ever seen in a face, but he doesn’t remember seeing any other faces. The touch almost made him desperate, looking away through slow, deep breaths.

“--Are you alr-” 

**_“Tommy!”_ **

The voice snapped him out of the memory, on his knees of the floor of Wayne manor, his breathing forced and desperate. The _terror_ that shot through him forced him into proper consciousness, and he was alone. The two boys, nor the faceless man, were here. And he coughed, painfully so, creating a red splatter of blood across the ground. Everything tasted like blood, the iron-like metallic sting against his tongue, which was so familiar, like he was so _used to it_ . But the last voice rang in his head, a woman’s, and in instinct it caused him fear and anger. _Tommy_ . Who was Tommy? He shook, slowly shoving to wipe blood from his mouth, pulling his hand away to look at the fluid staining it. Red. Red and warm. If he bleeds- He must be alive. He must be alive, trapped and distorted, but he’s _alive._ But not here. It wasn’t here. It was empty here.

He collected himself to his feet, his step feeling more solid as he made his way from the bedroom, creeping down the hall to wander down the large stairs, closing his eyes through slow, deep breaths. He remembers this place. He was rushed here- Or was he already here? His parents died. His parents had died, in a car crash. Thomas- Perhaps Tommy was Bruce’s father. Thomas Wayne, the surgeon who- failed him. He let his mother live. He shook his head, , desperately trying to tear the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t remember, it was all a haze of- of someone else’s memories. Someone he doesn't know. But he was angry. He remembered the _rage_ he felt, he lashed out.

And he left Wayne manor, and the memories behind with it, wandering the streets of Gotham- He was searching. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Himself, he thinks. The streets were silent, yet filled with people. But they weren’t people anymore, they didn't have _faces_ , skin over their sockets and sickly pale. They made groans similar to the undead, teeth sharp and hungry. They didn’t notice him walk by, even as he bumped into them, they paid him no mind. They were just like him, lost souls who can’t be helped. 

He didn’t know how long he was walking. The red moon above him didn’t move, and his legs ached. The sun never rose, but he paid it no mind; In reality, he had been walking for hours- close to an entire day. But time didn’t exactly work here, and eventually, he stopped. He stopped and stared up at an empty hospital. He couldn’t remember the name of the hospital, but he felt like he was supposed to be here. He swallowed, his throat dry with the taste of blood, and he pushed himself inside.

When he entered, the hospital was lively, people in the waiting room, doctors and nurses rushing between them under a tight schedule. And beside him was the boy he’s grown to recognise. Bruce Wayne, young, hair politely brushed back in a neat, blue jumper and light yellow shirt.

“Thanks for coming, Bruce. It means a lot to me….and to _mom_ , of course.” He told him without controlling his voice, but it was the same voice of the young, red headed boy. It took him a moment to realise, but he did; That was him. Not _him_ , he didn’t feel like it was him, but the body he was in. It was young, dressed in a suit, and looking down, he was holding a bundle of flowers.

“Forget it, Tommy. What are friends for?”

Tommy smiled back at him, glancing to the hand on his shoulder, turning to him on the well of the stairs they were climbing, and he took Bruce’s hand, and Bruce’s smile was innocent and soft. He wasn’t angry. He was… Happy. Looking at Bruce, he felt happy. “I know. It’s just--... I..” He struggled to articulate what he wanted to say, biting the inside of his cheek, before he pulled Bruce in closer, softly pressing a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you,”

Bruce hesitated, but a bright smile spread across his face, and his eyes lit up, nodding to him as if there was a silent understanding. His chest ached with a distinct sadness, bitter sweet and pained. “We should get going,” Bruce insisted, and Tommy was pulled out of it. They continued the memory, and he looked at the walls of the hall with familiarity. This was Sacred Heart hospital. He remembers. Him and Bruce were approaching two men, one he recognised as Thomas Wayne, Bruce’s father. He had… Done his mothers surgery. He saved her, and he… _Hated_ it.

The man he didn’t recognise spoke up; “Hiya son, you the Elliot boy?”

“...Yes, sir.”  
  
“What do you know about _cars_ , Tommy?”

And he tensed up. He remembered now. He remembers why he _hates_ the fact his mother is _alive_ in that room. “I killed my father,” He muttered out, his voice deeper. It sounded like- It wasn’t a young boy's voice, but it came from him. “I cut the brakes. They crashed the car and- And they were _both_ supposed to die,” He clenched his fist, the memory freezing up without continuing. “My dad… He wasn’t always real nice to me. A lot of the times he left me and mom alone, and when he was home…”

He frowned. “He beat me. He didn’t care; He rarely even went after the witch, it was always _me_ being hurt, and my mother didn’t care _either_ . I hate them. I _hated_ them. They're both dead. They _deserved_ it. And-” Tommy flinched, catching view of himself in a patient room window, freezing up. He wasn’t young. By no means he was young; His mouth was covered in blood and his hair a mess, but it was a _fiery red._ The same colour the young boy he saw he had, except _he had a face._ He could see it. He could feel it. He- That was _him._ Dr. Thomas Elliot, world renowned surgeon and- and-

“Bruce’s best friend.” He whispered out, pressing his hand against the glass. The memory had flickered away, and he was left alone. “My name is Dr. Thomas Elliot. And Bruce Wayne was my best friend. He- I- I lost him. I lost him to my own stupidity and clouded hatred; I never hated him, did I? I was- I was like all of these things here. I was jealous, and I wanted to _be_ him. So I became him. But that’s never what _you_ wanted, was it? Tommy. That’s not what _Tommy_ wanted. That was what _Hush_ wanted.” He clenched his jaw, rage boiling over as tears spilled over his face- He could feel them, he could see them, right up until his fist collided with the glass, shattering it.

And the world shattered with it, and he couldn’t breathe. Darkness shadowed over him and he panicked, shoving his hands against whatever was above him; Laid horizontal in- A wooden box. A coffin. He was in a coffin- He was- Alive. Six feet under, but alive. He wasn’t going to just let himself _die_ like this, suffocating in his own grave. He had to stay calm. He had to keep his air, he refused to die. 

He didn’t know how long it took, forcing the earth to move without crushing him to death, but he shifted through the dirt, his gloved hands filled with grit and dearth and worms. It got in his eyes, in his mouth, in his nose, and for a desperate second- He had run out of air, his lungs were crushing for however hours he had been forcing his way through the dirt. He was on the verge of _crying_ , before he felt it- His hand breached the surface, he could feel the air, and he desperately clawed his way out, choking and coughing. Tommy dragged himself onto the grass, coughing up dirt and blood as he gasped for air, his hands shaking; He was _alive_ . He had dug himself out of his own grave and made it out _alive_ . He laughed, he laughed at the world and the moon above him. He was _free._

Tommy was filthy. He needed a shower, desperately, and food, and water. God he needed water. His lungs felt as if they were about to crisp up and die, and it hit him _suddenly_ . He needed- He needed to go somewhere. He needed to find Bruce. But not like this. Where _else_ can he go?-

Edward Ngyma was the first name that came to mind, and in hindsight, Jonathan Crane, his mentor, would have been a much better choice than his ex who had manipulated him, and who he’s tried to kill _multiple_ times, but he was already here. Dragged out of the grave, dragged through the streets of Gotham- He was in front of Edward’s apartment, one he had gotten the address of for a ‘surprise’ visit before he had gone after Dick Grayson. He raised his hand, shaken, and slowly knocked.


	2. Edward Nygma, a friend?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cowritten with @bellandeano! Special thanks to @kittokatsu for their nice comment <3

It took a while for Edward to answer the door, and it dawned on him that he-- he didn't know how long he'd been gone. Edward may be long gone from this apartment since his last info. Edward could be in Arkham, working as a private investigator again, anything, and he wouldn't have known. He frowned, his heart sinking as he dryly swallowed, pressing his hand on the door. "I know you're in there, Ed," He muttered out, his voice cracked and broken and distorted, like he hadn't had a drink of water in months. Technically not incorrect. "Can- Can you just open-" He tried, exhausted, and the door opened. Edward looked like he was working when the knock sounded; Irritated by the intrusion and then cautious as to who it might be. The last time Ed had seen him and he hadn’t had the intention of putting a bullet in his gut, if not far worse, had been before he’d left him for dead. But coincidences like that don’t happen. Edward held the door on the chain-lock, giving him just enough room to speak through the door without needing to open it far enough for someone to get through. 

“You look like shit.”

He tiredly looked to him between the chained gap. There were bags under his eyes, almost cartoonishly large, his face covered in gravel and mud and blood and dirt, so we're the rest of his clothes. He was still wearing his trench coat and getup, torn and dirtied, and if someone saw him walking the street, the only thing that would cover up his identity was lack of bandages and any of the themed parts of his outfit was mudied over. And he smiled, lips coated in dried blood. "Thank you. Can- Can I come in? I desperately need a glass of water," He insisted, his voice carrying the same tiredness and dehydration from through the door. Weakly, he held up his hands on defeat, taking slow breaths. It was odd to…. Breathe again. "I'm unarmed. I- I just didn't know where to go, I-fuck." He hated sounding desperate, so he shut himself up with a flinch to hold his head. Headache, probably from the dehydration. And he didn't want to think about how much weight he's lost, that wouldn't be something he's gonna be happy about. "Just your old Doctor, Thomas Elliot. Like- Like old times, right?"

Up close he really looked like shit. There was literally nothing, from his clothes to his overall silhouette, that even remotely hinted he might be secretly healthy. Tommy was dedicated to his life of charades, but he wasn’t this good at acting; and on top of that he’d never tried to sneak in to hurt Ed before. Tommy was somewhat more partial to the guns blazing approach. But Tommy wasn’t stupid either- even Ed would admit he’s a strategic genius. He wet his lips as he considered this. Edward looked like he was considering it- Questions, he’s sure, going around his head on why he was here and why he looked like absolute shit: Eventually, he gave in, knowing the best way to know what happened was unlocking the door. “If you try anything I’m slitting your throat, Dr. Elliot,” he said by way of a greeting as he let him in.

Tommy let out a sigh of relief when he was allowed inside, dragging himself in with a slight awareness that he was definitely dirtying up Edward's apartment, and he couldn't be certain of how much taking his shoes off would help that, but he did, crouching over to pull the laces and buckles undone, and pulling them off to find his socks -- well, bandages, were just as dirty, and the shoes were filled with dirt. But it would do. He placed the shoes by the door, slipping his trench off and hanging it by the door, and pulling his gloves off. It helped a bit, but not tremendously. He needed a change of clothes. Of course, Edward would have never expected him to come here, out of their past, but here was here, slinking into Ed’s apartment like a dog with its tail between its legs.

This was so different from the Tommy he recognised that Ed just shut the door with no further comment, frowning after him once he was inside. He looked almost concerned. He was… bewildered, let’s call it, enough to retreat to somewhere he could get Tommy some water and still watch him. “You need more than water. What happened? What… prompted the change back?” He gestured vaguely at Tommy’s face. If it was too soon for questions, it... didn't occur to him, even as he held out the drink. "God, you smell like shit too.”

He didn't respond to their little greeting- Being called Dr. Elliot was odd. He was used to Hush, and the last person to call him Tommy was-- No, that was just inside his head. It would have been Nightwing. He was… desperate to save him. He failed. His mentor- And partially Edward -had given him the name Hush, and it stuck to his identity. But he wasn't sure who he was, but he wasn't Hush. He was Tommy. He… thinks. He didn't understand, and it hurt his head to think. He blinked, giving him another weak smile as he was passed the water, and before he spoke back up, he pressed it to his lips to test a sip-- And very quickly drank the rest of the glass in a matter of seconds, throwing him into a dry cough from going too fast.

He held the glass back to him, very aware that he felt like he could drink a lake right now. Ed took the glass as Tommy handed it back to him, watching the coughing fit impassively as he refilled it and put it on the counter where Tommy could just pick it up when he was done choking. "I was buried alive-" He croaked out, but his voice was a little better. It sounded like a stranger's voice to him- He had changed his vocal cords when he changed his face, he wasn't sure if it had gone 'back'... "Dug myself out. My- My face-" He shifted, moving to touch against the skin, and his nose, and his eyes. God. He had a face. 

"What does it- I- I think I need a mirror. Can I use your bathroom?"

“I… sure? It’s through there.” He hadn’t actually had a chance to process the fact that Tommy was… here, now. He was too thrown to actually decide how he felt about it, and therefore how to react beyond just going along with it. He didn’t think he liked it. “I’d tell you to have a shower while you’re in there, but I don’t want you thinking you’re welcome to stay.”

“Ha. I’ll try to get out of your hair. I’m- I’m sorry. Not for trying to kill you, you deserved that. Bastard,” The words themself were mean, but they had that soft, teasing tone he used when they were dating, smiling at him through a tired softness in his eyes. His smile dropped, stepping aside into the bathroom through a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes, not sure if he wanted to see, his hands gripping onto the edges of the sink. It was fine. This was fine. Take deep breaths. He knew what to expect- It was either his own face or it was Dick’s face, so he can’t be too shocked by it. Despite changing faces so often it was- It was like being in a constant dissociative episode. He couldn’t help it, either. Just open your fucking eyes.

He tensed up, straining to look up, piercing green eyes locking onto his- ginger hair.He felt like he was staring at a stranger, like this wasn’t a mirror, but a photograph of someone he didn’t know. It upset his stomach, and if it wasn't so empty, he was sure the sudden fit of coughs would have led to vomiting. Tommy leant over the sink, heaving deeply through a panic he hated. The panic he felt when he was just- Just a scared little fucking kid, desperate for his parents approval. He didn’t get it. He never fucking got it- And he lost Bruce’s. He lost Bruce’s the moment he decided to turn on him and stopped playing nice. Why did he ruin everything he had? Why does he shatter any chance of happiness that he can take…? Why does he always force it?

Tommy took a deep breath, tearing his gaze away to run the tap, leaning down to splash the water against his face and clean away the mud, the water running a mix of red and brown from the blood dried on his face. It was fine, absolutely fine. He pressed his hands past his cheeks, running his fingers through his hair with the mud pulling out along with it, and when he was ready, he slowly glanced back up. And he wasn’t ready- Within two seconds of staring, his fist collided with the mirror, smashing it into pieces with the glass falling over the sink and floor- bloodying up his knuckles in a shaken state. Tommy grabbed a large shard of glass, closing his eyes to press the glass into the side of his face and slowly make a cut. He knew where to cut. He’s done this so many times before. He just needs to get rid of it. Get rid of it. He would prefer no face.

“What the fuck-” Edward grabbed Tommy’s arm on sheer autopilot, pulling it away from the newly opened gash on his cheek and Edward definitely took him off guard, and he flinched, holding the shard of glass so tightly between his fingers that his fingers began to bleed. He looked shakily to him, his breathing heavy and pained, like he couldn’t believe he was stopped. His hand was shaking, and no matter how impulsive he was, it was obvious that even if he did succeed, the cut would not have been smooth. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, looking to Ed with a terrified look in his eyes, before he yanked his arm back, almost pushing the shard of glass back up to his face, before he threw it on the ground, only making more glass shatter onto the ground. He balled his hand up into his hair, cursing under his breath as he felt the familiar feeling of blood trickling down his face. It stung, painfully so, but it barely bothered him at this point. “-Are you doing?” Edward finished, a pissed look in his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry- I just-” He tried to explain himself, which was a rarity in itself, with his body tensing up with a hard grip on the sink. The water was still running, diluting any blood that dripped down into a light red river. It wasn’t the only thing that was dripping, either, tears rolling down his cheeks. His head hurt, so did his heart, and he wasn’t in a good place, mentally, after how long he was gone. Tommy looked away from him, clenching his jaw as if struggling to choose how to react. He wanted to be angry, but he just couldn’t. “I cant- I can’t look at it. I don’t want it, I want to get rid of it. I don’t know who I am, and I don’t like who I’m supposed to be,”

He flinched, pulling his hand back from his hair to touch his fingers against the blood dripping against his face, pulling it back to just… Stare at it. He closed his eyes. He can’t change his blood. That was something that was going to always stay with him. He can take comfort in that, or it can revolt him. Some things can’t change. “I need some bandages and stitches. Do you have any?” He whispered out, his voice weak. He should have done that to begin with. Stupid mistakes. There was a reason he wore bandages, and it wasn’t just because his face was often healing from recent surgery- Or, no face at all. He’d never cried in front of Ed before. Or at least, definitely not like this. Apologies had also been rare, and for Tommy to apologise simply for breaking something, unprompted, was essentially unheard of.

“Then look away; don’t make me buy a new mirror,” Edward replied, shockingly calm, but hesitated to think. “Yes, I do. Stay here- over the sink. I don’t want to mop up blood and glass. Keep the water going.” He hesitated for a moment to make sure Tommy was following his instructions. He closed his eyes to take another breath. This wasn't a new feeling. He's felt like this plenty and broke plenty of mirrors, over the same thing, similar things, or something else entirely. He wasn't a stranger to the dread in his chest nor the air caught in his throat and the severe dissociation from himself; But this felt worse. The face was a shock, one he wasn't prepared to see and he shouldn't have looked in the first ace. He didn't respond to anything Edward said, lost in his own thoughts, but he did nod absently to show he was listening, leaning over the sink to slowly pull out the shards of glass stuck in his knuckles, dropping them in the sink with water washing away the blood.

He balanced it open on the part of the sink Tommy wasn’t dripping on when he came back, picking up the stitching thread- and holding it out of reach if Tommy reached for it. “Stay still. Some surgeon’s hands you have- they’re shaking so much I’m surprised you found your face at all. I’ll do it. If you put a towel over your lap and bleed on that you can sit down. I’ll burn it later.” Tommy looked back to him when he came back with a medical kit, and as we all expect, he reached for it with an expectancy to work on himself. He was the surgeon, so it would make sense, but Edward promptly stopped him, earning him a glare.

"I can do it just fi-" He sighed at the look Edward gave him, promptly shutting up in a sulk. "I'm not-- not a child. I've done plenty of surgery, on myself, on you, I'm sure I can handle a little cut." He mumbled out, shifting slightly back, before taking the offer to sit down. Edward let Tommy mutter to himself as he followed Ed’s instructions- and wasn’t that a surprise. First time he’s done that since Ed had fucking met him. 

“As much as I’d love to see you wreck a cut beyond all repair, you’d make yourself bleed more. And I don’t intend to spend my night cleaning up because you couldn’t be safe around broken glass.” Ed would have liked to sit down too, and he did glance around for something. Eventually he chose a stool he usually kept skincare products on, setting them to one side as he pulled it into a position that would let him sit and sew. “You look more surprised to see yourself than I am. And about ten minutes from passing out. If you keep whining I’ll jam this into your eye.” 

He was lightheaded as it was, and losing blood wasn't helping. He wasn't sure how much blood he lost while he was 'in the grave.' He dragged a towel onto his lap, tilting his head for Edward. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're going soft," He hummed out in a soft, teasing tone. He was tired, he had just had an identity crisis and tried to cut his face off, but there was nothing like old teasing. He didn't even blink as the needle pressed into his skin; He felt it, but it wasn't a bad feeling. 

Ed wouldn’t have expected Tommy to react to the needle even while he was like this, and he didn’t disappoint. So at least there was that. “You do know better, though,” he said as he leaned forwards slightly to focus on the stitch.

"Try not to leave a scar," he muttered out, acutely aware Edward might not know how to properly stitch skin without a trace. "But re-really," He laughed, dry. "You shouldn't have even let me in, and you should have kicked me out by now. By- By all means I should have gone to my mentor. But I didn't. I.. I don't know why. The only reason I'm still here is because that brain of yours wants to know what happened.."

“I shouldn’t have; you’re a prick. If you’d gone to Jon you know that you’d be jamming that glass somewhere around your eyeball by now, though, so you’d better be grateful I did. He likes you, but he’s a bastard. And I say that in the friendliest way possible.” He met Tommy's eyes, tilting his head just slightly before going back to his work. “What did happen?”

"Ha. You've always full of e-excuses," Tommy hummed out to Edward's reasoning towards why he was 'helping' him. He didn't care, he didn't think he cared. It didn't mean anything, it wasn't anything he should worry about. He'd more than likely be gone before the end of the night. That was fine. He's sure he can find-- Somewhere. He could head to one of his hideouts, but after Bruce finds the grave, that's exactly where he's going to be heading. So that was crossed off the list. And Edward, curiously enough, suggested against Jonathan. Did he really have any other friends?... Jason, he supposed. He doubted Jason would want to see him. "I think I've been ten minutes from passing out for the past few-" he stopped, tilting his head up a slight. "-Few however long it's been. What's the date?"

“Stay still,” Ed told him as Tommy moved his head to ask the date. He turned in place, one hand keeping the thread and needle in place while the other found his phone. He handed it to Tommy- solidly locked- so that he could check while Ed kept stitching. “Dunno, I’ve been busy. Nobody’s heard from you in a few months, though, so unless you were doing one of your drops off of the face of the earth that’d be my guess.”

Tommy took his phone when it was offered, pressing the home button whole being sure not to budge his head, scanning over the date. It had been… ah. A long time, and longer than he anticipated- Edward's guess was around right. "It's been much too long." He muttered out, placing the phone onto the side as to not distract him from the stitching. 

"Oh, you are plenty pr- pretty, now that you point it out…" Tommy purred to him, on the verge of passing out, but still very capable of flirting. His voice still sounded strained, but that was alright. "I've stitched up your face plenty of times. And your head, and your general body. You know, I- I've always been morbidly curious how I would look with your face, but you've always been aw..awfully twink-ish. Mm. We might be compatible, now, I seem to have lost some of my flair." He grinned at him, reaching up to brush the back of his hand against Edward's jaw, because he's actually just a massive asshole.

Ed gave Tommy a withering look as he took the ‘opportunity’ to flirt- or… threaten. It might be a threat. Unfortunately Ed had a feeling it was meant to be appealing to him. He yanked his next stitch purposefully too hard, making sure Tommy felt it. He didn’t react, past a strong glare. “You still think wearing my face is an appealing thought for me, so I’d say you haven’t lost enough of it. If you chose to come here because you’re somehow horny with blood loss you can go bleed to death somewhere else so that I can laugh without getting more blood on my towel.” Tommy smiled, though, as tired as he was, he smiled, if just to continue the 'flirt'. Ed cut the stitch, sitting back. “You’re a doctor, I don’t need to tell you you shouldn’t wet that. But if you’re staying the night you’re getting yourself clean or sleeping on the glass, so you can figure that one out.”

"Would you rather I butcher some other poor twinks who look like you? I can, of course I can, I just need the perfect grafts. The freckles will be hard, but I can manage it." He moved to touch the stitches, lightly, when Edward finished. "I wouldn't want to use plastic- No, your face is too perfect for that." No amounts of threat will stop Tommy's terrible flirts. "And I need a new face, anyway. I think you'd make a perfect candidate, a trophy of our love. I'd still prefer to take it from the source, but…" he laughed. Already in a better mood. "I've cleaned myself, and my wounds, with more stitches than these. I can manage. Are you inviting me to stay, Mr. Nygma?"

“I’ve changed my mind, you’re no longer welcome to stay.” Edward announced, but even with the obviouse distaste in his expression he didn’t make any actual move to kick him out. “We don’t have any love now, Tommy. Use someone else’s face or I’ll throw you off another bridge. Can’t be too hard a second time, right? Tell me what happened.”

Tommy’s smile dropped, along with his hand, where it got to the part of the conversation he expected. He tapped his fingers against his thighs, wishing he could look away even as he kept watching Ed. "I was…" his voice wavered. "Going after Nightwing. Because I had found out that it wasn't…" he furrowed his brows. "I don't want to be Bruce Wayne- I- I don't think I ever had. It was a new feeling, and I came to a loss, because I didn't want to be Bruce, and I didn't know what I wanted to- to be." He pressed his thumb silently into the side of his finger. "I'd come to the conclusion that I wanted to be his best friend again," He whispered out, as if he were a teenager gossiping about his crush. "And that… that's what Nightwing has. If I just took that, wouldn't I finally be happy?--... It went wrong. Obviously. What do I do that doesn't go wrong?"

“Picking his kid was probably a dumb move. You can’t take friendship from other people, Tom. It’s not money. And it’s not really a strong point of yours” He glanced up at Tommy, frowning slightly. Hm.

He wasn't sure if anything happened at all. "I know that," He muttered. "I know- know that now. I can't… just… take things. God I want to. Every instinct I have tells me just to take, and-- and-" he took a deep breath. "Well, I suppose I should continue our little story. It went wrong, and me and Nightwing fell through some sort of- Portal, into- into- God I can't even start to describe it. I think… I think it's my own personal hell, it forced me to revaluate myself and grasp at what little identity I have. I woke up buried in my own grave. I suppose I was dead, wasn't I?... In there, I didn't have a face, but I suppose Tommy Elliot's face came back with acceptance. Ha. I… I don't know what I should do." It was still a shock that Tommy was saying any of this at all, and by the look on his face, he certainly didn't want to. But what choice did he have?

Ed had gotten to his feet while Tommy started to explain the rest of the story, looking vaguely relieved that he was actually explaining, among other things. It wasn’t enough; he didn’t know what had happened to the portal, why anything that might summon a portal would be involved… But everyone knew Ed’s urge to know, even just the basics. He put the thread and the needle in their corner of the kit, probably to be cleaned later, and then turned to wash his hands while Tommy talked. “If your face magically reappeared, I don’t think you should be cutting it back off at all. I’m not going to tell you what to do. Well, I am, because you’re going to get washed up and then probably pass out on my couch, but that’s not what I meant. I have an… odd feeling you’re not quite happy with your identity.” Ed hesitated as he turned off the water, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Tommy. “I’d work on the ability to not break someone’s mirror first.”

...Right. Right.

**Author's Note:**

> If this gets any attention I might continue it!!!


End file.
